


The Cold Winds

by lyter



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Artistic Changes, BAMF Sansa Stark, BMF Solas, Bran is confusing, Daenerys Targaryen Is Not a Mad Queen, Exploration into the others, F/M, Inquisitor Sansa Stark, Mage Sansa Stark, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pro Mage, Slow Burn, Some canon will be different, The Fade, some?? I meant a lot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:28:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26189518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyter/pseuds/lyter
Summary: The Night King was dead, atleast that’s what they had thought. Then he came back. With little hope for survival, Bran Stark devises a plan. A mad, insane plan, to find the one person who can kill him.And it was Sansa Stark’s duty to do so.Shame he failed to mention this person was not only a God but one set on destroying both worlds.
Relationships: Sansa Stark/Solas (Dragon Age)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	The Cold Winds

**Author's Note:**

> Hullo! After looking for something like this I realized I was going to have to take things into my own hands. I hope you guys enjoy this rare plot and ship, I know I do.
> 
> Also, don’t worry, everything will be explained in time ;)
> 
> And yes, LOTS of angst.
> 
> AND- any advice or criticism would be greatly appreciated.

The cold winds had burned her the night Winterfell was stolen from her, from her family. Thrice in her lifetime had the Starks lost their home. This time had a sense of finality; the dead held the ruins of Winterfell and this was a foe Sansa Stark could not out maneuver. 

Once, life held a certain simplicity, not that she saw it at the time. All those she opposed had weaknesses, a byproduct of humanity; and they could be killed, with enough patience and planning. She had been a fool to think an ancient adversary could be dealt with the same. They had all been fools and they lost everything because of their naive hope. The first battle of the dawn, at Winterfell, was a farce. They had nearly lost, if it hadn’t been for Arya’s move against the Night King. 

They had thought he was dead, that it was all over. So they mourned all those they lost in mass pyres, then celebrated the lives they saved in drunken stupors. Everything had been warm that night, from the ale in her blood to the large fires they set. She remembered the laughter shared between her and Sandor, after far too much to drink, and how they all cheered for her sister- the bringer of Dawn. How she despised that title. This was the first night of The Long Night, not that they had known.

Bran later told them, after investigating by a weirwood tree for nearly an entire fortnight, that the first battle was the cause of the long night. The Night King was weak after his millennia of slumber and had been in need of more power. The blood that had been shed more he gained and by the time Arya had reached him, it was already far too late. They had given him all he needed to truly begin his reign of death upon Westeros. 

He had started with them, those who thought death could be killed.

Sansa considered those who died that night lucky; as they would never know the true horrors that came with the long night. They never had to forget what the sun felt like on their skin, or had to feel an unending hunger. Nor did they have to watch helplessly as all they loved be desecrated by him. Some days she is envious of them, wishing she had stayed that night, as she had been so tempted to do. Even as the Night King, the one that was supposed to be dead entered the dining hall. When Sandor, her dear hound, barked at her to go- sword bloody- she refused. 

“A Stark must always stay in Winterfell.” She had said, the words her father always said. 

“There won’t be a Winterfell by the end of this, little bird. Go. Don’t die for honor.” Like your father, were the unspoken words. She stumbled back as the battle raged on around them, eyes wide and leaking tears, dagger shaking in her hand. Her hesitation angered him, “Go! Grab your sister and take her with you, drag her if you must. Now go!”

Heart in her throat, she left, not risking to glance behind her as she heard Sandor’s war cry. Not even when the cry had abruptly stopped. If only he knew it’d be Arya dragging her out that night. Under the cover of Daenerys’ children, they and all those who lived ran. They ran all the way to Moat Cailin; and there they had stayed for months, trying to figure out what to do after losing near everything. 

Well, not everything. Sansa had wept when she first saw that Jon and Bran had escaped upon Rhaegal and again when she saw Brienne, who was among the injured. She may have also shed a tear for Tyrion’s survival, not that she would tell anyone that. Nor would she ever tell anyone that she still cries over Sandor’s ghost.

“So morose, sister. Don’t tell me you’re missing Moat Cailin.” Arya clucked, joining her side under one of the many weirwood trees of the Isle of Faces. Sansa’s jaw clenched as she opted to stay silent in the face of Arya’s jape. 

Her sister took the silence in stride as and continued to speak. “I for one, don’t. Though, not much of a fan of the Isle of Faces either. There’s something off about it.”

Sansa was relieved she wasn’t the only one to feel this way. The air itself felt heavy and occasionally she could hear faint music, like something was calling out to her, especially when she stared at the face of the weirwood before her. “Yes, off. No more off than The Raven, I suppose.”

“That’s one way to put it, dear sister.” Arya said. 

Sansa glanced towards Arya, and even in the darkness of the forest, she could see her sister was smiling. Envy came over Sansa. She couldn’t remember the last time she had smiled. How her sister stayed so… herself in all this grief and darkness was something she couldn’t understand. 

“Daenerys sent me to get you, Bran is ready to tell us why we are here. Though, I wish he told us before we lost half of our people on the trip.” Arya said, her smile replaced with a scowl. Sansa hummed, body tensed at the mention of their growing casualties.

It had been deadly, getting to the isle of faces. They traveled in raging blizzards and constant darkness. No fires could be lit in the weather and no food could be cooked. Nearly half of their people perished from the cold in the night. It was a gentle death, atleast. 

“The Three Eyed Raven does not think like us, Arya. I doubt we will ever understand the things he does.” The eldest Stark sighed before turning away from the weirwood tree and back to their impromptu camp site. It had been a long time since she had called him Bran, perhaps it was because in some ways he already felt dead.

“Trust me, I wasn’t going to try.” She snarked back as they entered the torch covered camp. They were lucky that the Isle’s trees and brush gave them cover from the constant storm. Arya tucked her arms behind her back as they neared the center of the camp, where the rest of the council stood. In front of them sat an expressionless Bran, who sat upon a weirwood tree’s root.

“You are here. Good. We must begin, now.” Bran began, as he noticed the bearing sisters, looking almost pleased.

“Begin what, exactly?” Daenerys snapped. Sansa could tell her patience was thin, not that she blamed her. The woman had lost as much as Sansa herself.

“The end.” Bran said as he looked at Daenerys. “As you all know, the Night King cannot be killed by us. Not anymore.” His eyes went to Arya.

Arya’s calm façade broke at the mention of this, letting grief poke through. “Yes.”

“It wasn’t-“ Ser Jaime, who stood across from them, started to speak- only to get cut off.

“Shut your mouth before I take your other hand, Kingslayer.” Arya snarled. Sansa quickly placed her hand on Arya’s shoulder, silencing her. Even with their newfound camaraderie, Jaime would always feel the bite of the youngest Stark.

Jaime snapped his jaw shut and gave an apologetic nod of his head.

“What were you going to say, m-my lord.” Missandei meekly asked, as she shivered by Daenerys’ side. She had never been the same after they realized Grey Worm hadn’t made it out of Winterfell. This was another thing Sansa mourned. The woman had always been so polite and kind. 

“I know who can kill the Night King, and where to find him.” For a moment the council was quiet, all of them processing what he had said. 

“You know what?” Tyrion demanded.

“Where is this man?” Jon quickly asked. 

“How long have you known this, boy?” Tormund growled. 

“Who is he?” Daenerys snapped. 

While they all demanded answers, Sansa could only feel dread, especially as Bran was staring at her with eyes that saw far too much. His gaze was… expectant, not observant. Chills went through her as she stared back at him, trying to understand why he was so focused on her. She hadn’t said a word. The others were clamoring for answers, not her. What did he need from her-

Oh.

“What do you need from me?” She asked, her voice ice and cutting everyone short. They went silent at the implications of her question. None of them noticed how she shivered, not from the cold, but anxiety. 

“You must gain aid from this man, the wolf.” Bran said, looking almost pleased that she had figured out his silent gaze. Sansa loathed it. She was not a stupid little girl, not anymore. 

“Where do I find this wolf?” She asked, slowly, careful not to show how confused she was. He could not mean another Stark, could he? Or was there someone else who held wolves dear? She cursed her lack of knowledge outside of Westeros. 

“I shall show you. Jon, if you please.” Bran said as he glanced towards a troubled Jon Snow. After exchanging a look with Daenerys, who gave him a look of equal confusion, Jon fluidly picking up his brother. “Come.” He said to them all, before guiding Jon into the forest.

As the council followed Bran, all carrying a torch of their own, Sansa cursed this raven. Never answering, never telling. No motive besides ending the Long Night. She was sure if his family had to die to do so, he would make sure it happened. Perhaps she would, too. Though that last thought terrified her more than the Three Eyed Raven himself.

“I wonder, Bran, is this… man Azor Azhai?” Daenerys asked, as they walked. Her voice had softened from before and held some hope. Sansa nearly grimaced at the question. How many atrocities came from this prophecy? How many more will follow?

“Yes and no. Such prophecies are fickle. The full prophecy of the prince who was promised is lost to even me.” He stated after telling Jon to make a left turn. “Mind the stone, cousin, this place has fallen into ruin for over a millennia.” 

Sansa’s grimace deepened further at the word cousin, especially coming from his mouth. Jon would always be a brother to her, the brother who saved her where another didn’t, she thought bitterly. She noticed Arya make the same face. 

Carefully, she trailed through the ruins around them. These structures must have been massive, long ago. She couldn’t help but wonder what this structure was, especially as she noticed a crumbled statue of a wolf. It was most definitely tied to this wolf man, she had no doubt. Curious. Was it a god? A symbol? She had never seen the statue before, but she had also never visited many ruins in her life. 

Her pondering was cut short as they entered a decrepit building. It’s ceiling was near gone and half was caved in from pillars that had fallen. 

“Are these walls plated with gold?” Jaime wondered aloud from Brienne’s side, moving his torch near the walls, eyes squinting.

“Remind you of home, brother?” Tyrion quipped back, even as he stared at the walls himself.

“No, this is much too.. well, ruin like.” 

Before Tyrion could respond, Bran ordered Jon to stop. Directly in front of him stood a massive, old mirror, which held no reflection. It took up the whole back wall. Sansa stepped forward, noticing the music she once faintly heard return, louder. She was being called to it and that frightened her. She gulped and glanced at Bran, finding him already looking at her. Instead of voicing her questions, she waited for him to explain.

“This is an Eluvian. This is how you find him.” Before anyone could question he continued. “It is a bridge to another place, another world. One past the heavens.” Sansa found that his explanation made more questions than it solved. 

“What? Another world? Has he finally gone mad?” Tyrion was quick to say, look startled as he stepped back. Sansa was tempted to ask the same as her grip tightened upon her torch.

“Mad? No, Tyrion Lannister. This is where Sansa must go, in order for us to survive the Long Night.” Bran stated, and Sansa looked to Bran with wide eyes, mouth open to protest. Before she could, however, Bran whispered something she couldn’t pick up. 

With a crack, the mirror before them cracked to life, light illuminating around them. The others stumbled back, yelping in shock as all their torches were blown out- leaving nothing but the blue glow of the mirror before them. The music had grown much louder, it’s yearning for her evident. 

“You must go sister. You will go where you must in order to find the wolf. Convince him to kill the Cold One.” Sansa stared at her brother. He looked sad, with a frown on his face and illuminated by blue light. It looked like an apology. One the she wolf would likely never accept.

She debated silently as the rest watched in bated breath. Sansa glanced at them, the family who she always had and the ones she chose. If she did not do this, they and every innocent would perish. This world itself would perish. Even so, this plan was madness.

“Is there no other way?” Sansa asked, her voice quiet as she stared at the eluvian before her. The colors swirled to the never ending music in her ears, she noticed. 

“You can’t be considering this Sansa! The lone wolf dies, remember?” Arya snapped from the back, where she had kept quiet. With a couple of strides she was by Sansa, gripping her arm. “If someone must go to another bloody world, it will be me, not her.” 

“You can’t, sister. You will fail at what must be done. You all would. Sansa is the only one who can succeed in this.” Bran stated.

“Then let me go with her, Bran. I can make sure nothing happens to her, I can help her.” Jon quickly said, his face panicked as he looked down at Bran beggingly. Years ago he promised they would stay together, that he would keep her safe. Sansa’s relief starts Jon’s idea didn’t last long.

“No. You cannot. It must be her and her alone.” His eyes flashed white for a moment, his face going completely blank. Sansa held her breath, eyes meeting Jon’s mournfully. She felt Arya’s hand slide into hers, gripping it. 

Then, Bran returned, and his head quickly turned to Sansa. “You must go. Now. Or it will be too late.” 

Arya’s hand gripped her so tight it hurt. It was comforting.

She took a breath, only hearing her heart and the deafening music in her ears. She thought of her mother’s words. Family, Duty, Honor. Now she must do her duty to save her family. To save all she held dear. Sansa looked down at her sister who had yet to look away. 

“I must go, Arya.” She all but whispered, before looking to Jon- who looked on in defeat. She gently pulled her hand out of Arya’s after a final squeeze. “You are my family, all of you. I shall do my duty and bring this man, or will die trying. This I swear to you all.” She said, turning to look at them all over her shoulder. 

Brienne had taken a step forward, eyes watery, with Jaime's hand on her shoulder. Tyrion could barely look at her, as Daenerys and Missendei looked on with tearful admiration. Tormund, well, he looked concerned and very confused.

She nearly smiled, then. But couldn’t. This may be the last time she saw them all, but even then she would ensure they were saved. At any and all cost she would ensure this. Sansa Stark looked at the eluvian before her, jaw set and chin high. 

“You must step through, sister, before it is too late. Show the wolf there is life in the tranquil. You must, or all is lost.” 

From steel she turned to ice; and she took a step into the beginning of the end.


End file.
